


when you smile (i fall apart)

by rad_sad



Series: i'm dedicating every day to you [4]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barely any dialogue, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Mental Health Issues, Minor Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Hercules Mulligan, One Shot, Past Character Death, Teen Angst, and sad, hamilton is younger, like really sad, mostly feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_sad/pseuds/rad_sad
Summary: love comes in all shapes and forms.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was.... supposed to be a short, cute...... one shot.............

**iv.**

_Alexander is drunk._

Alexander Hamilton, seventeen years of age who couldn't hold his drink, was _drunk_.

George had hoped he had heard wrong the stumbling French man on the arm of the tipsy Mulligan. George had finally been allowed to rest his head down onto his pillow for once, his eyes instantly closing themselves shut and his mind being covered in a veil of darkness. The brief peacefulness of sleep was soon to be interrupted by the sound of Lafayette's drunk hooting and hollering, called for the General; _r_ _éveillez-vous mon Général!_ he shouted at the top of his voice, giggling and cackling before he tripped over his own two feet, falling face first onto the ground; George wasn't sure if he should be angry, amused or annoyed. Since time was precious and couldn't be spared, he decided to be all three at once.

George had been so tired that by the time he had manage to get to sleep, he didn't find the energy to change out of his clothes. Even his shoes were still on and his bones creaked and hurt from lying down too awkwardly on the lumpy and hard mattress. George might have been inclined to help the Marquis back to his feet had it not been for the fact the man had disturbed the one moment of peace George managed to grab and burst in unannounced into the General's tent. George swung his legs out from beneath the messy blankets, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to push away the sleep that lingered to the corners of his eyes and mind.

The Marquis still lay on the ground.

George, ignoring the ache in his back, stood to help the young French man to his feet when in tumbled Hercules Mulligan, red-cheeked and snorting as a hand was clutched at his stomach. George was becoming less amused and more annoyed.

"General! Sir!" Mulligan squeaked, the smile all too evident on his face a laugh was bubbling beneath the surface. His attempt to salute the General was abysmal; his hand shot to up, flat and fingers flared, and resulted in the man poking himself in the eyes with a yelp. The Marquis sniggered at his friend's failure, rolling onto his back, equally red-faced and hazy-eyed. If George wasn't so tired, he was sure that he would have hit them over the back of the head by then. Instead, he chose to glower at the two of the men who seemed to be acting more like adolescent boys than men. George stretched his legs, standing to his feet as the scowl on his face deepened as the Marquis couldn't seem to be able to control the bouts of giggles that dribbled past his lips.

"Oh, my lovely Mulligan, you poor soul!" Lafayette snickered as Mulligan's left eye began to twitch uncontrollably to push away the irritation. George felt his annoyance grow more and more as the two younger men continued to act as if they hadn't disturbed their General. A grumble left Mulligan's mouth as his cheeks grew redder, eyes turning towards the ever growing disgruntled General with a sheepish smile on his lips. "Do help me up, please. I can feel that swill you call _liq-oor_ about to be thrown up."

Mulligan, tipsy as he was, struggled to walk over to where Lafayette lay, hand outstretched and unable to grip onto the other man's hand, fingers slipping due to the sweat and drink laced on their skin before Mulligan managed to get the rather drunken Marquis to his feet. George could feel the vein in his forehead about to burst as the two men turned towards him, Lafayette practically draped over the other man, his weight being supported. Large toothy grins were on their faces, cheeks red from the drink and the chill of the night. George stood still, arms crossed over his chest as his foot tapped a steady rhythm against the ground.

"Ah, General! Delighted to see you here!" Lafayette hiccuped, wrapping his arm around Mulligan's shoulder. George raised an eyebrow.

"Yes; odd how that we've managed to meet together in _my own tent_ ," George quipped, tone clipped and cool while his voice was still thick from his brief moment of sleep. At this point, George didn't care if they turned his tent upside down, just as long as they did so in peace and he was left to go back to bed. Lafayette's eyebrows knitted together, a crease forming above his nose, as his eyes drank in his surroundings, bleary eyes and mouth parted. Mulligan, holding up much of the Marquis' weight by one arm wrapped around his hip, elected to take a quick swig from a flask. A gentle gasp slid past Lafayette's lips.

"My word! You are quite right!" Lafayette's words were slurred with his voice higher than usual. "Mulligan, you never told me we were in the General's tent!"

Mulligan, unfortunately with the alcohol still in his mouth resulting in the liquid dribbling down his chin, turned to the French man on his shoulder with a confused look on his face. "We were wha' 'ow?"

"My General, you missed the celebrations!" Lafayette continued to droll, resting his hand back on Mulligan's chest, eyes blinking at different times as another hiccup tore itself through his throat. George was really, _really_ hoping that the French man could hold his drink and would not vomit on the ground. "There was drink! And singing! And... drink! Not much else was good, I'm afraid. Apart frrrrooooom me, _bien sûr_. And my dear Mulligan." Another hiccup as the Marquis leaned in closer to Mulligan, who in turn leaned further away to turn the end of the flask up, worried that the French man might take it from him.

"Lafayette?"

"Yessssssss, sir?"

"You have exactly four seconds to tell me why you disturbed my sleep before I decide to hit you." Rash, but George was far too tired by this point to be calm and cool. Lafayette didn't take the threat seriously and gave out a snort. Lafayette turned to Mulligan, hand lightly and weakly hitting the other man's chest with a sigh to grab the man's attention. Mulligan looked as tired as George felt.

"I _toollddd_ you that we - _hic_ \- should have invited our dearest General!" Lafayette whined, a pout on his lips as he let out a raspberry. Mulligan gave a mumble and squeak in his defence but was ignored by Lafayette. "It would have been _soooooo_ much more fun than being with sourpuss Burr; I told youuuuuuu tha' we should'vvvvee celebrated Alexander's birfday - _hic_ \- birday - _birthday_ wi'out him."

The last sentence peaked George's interest as he stood up straight, the sleep that lingered at the corner of his eyes being pushed back. _It was Alexander's birthday?_ Odd as it was, George never really thought about the fact that the young boy, just like him, had his own celebrations. Then again, wartime was not really the time to get sentiment over such trivial things. Though it was easy for George to say since he had been so lucky to have celebrated so many birthday's meanwhile Alexander, young and voice squeaky Alexander, hadn't. He was also so very closed off from all those around him, even ones that were considered to be his good friends. Had they managed to pry such personal information from the lad with the use of alcohol? Or was it more likely that when the boy consumed enough, he was more than willing to share such secrets with his closest friends?

There was something bitter in George's mouth, maybe from the sleep or the blooming petals of a dull jealously that were unfurling in his rib cage, and he pursed his lips. It seemed that no matter how much George tried to pry into Alexander's past, he was simply met with a door being slammed in his face with a bolt and lock being added every time a question was asked. Both he and Lafayette were polar opposites; Alexander recoiled from any affection, either from George or his tight knit of friends, whereas Lafayette had an abundance of affection to be shared amongst everyone he knew. George knew that Alexander was most likely just alone in the world, though everyone was able to know that within two seconds of meeting him. Had he always been like this? So cold and cut off, scared to even make any type of connection with another human being?

George still remembered the first time he had laid eyes on the boy; he had heard stories about Alexander, how smart and cunning the lad was, but it was all so different laying eyes on him. Alexander's hair was a mess of curls, sloppily tied back with a strip of leather. His face was tight and sharp, most likely from the lack of food (was that how he always looked or was the weight loss only from being in the army?). Purple bruises from lack of sleep hung beneath his wide eyes and he was slightly slumped. Aaron Burr looked more like a vision when next to the younger man. Alexander's coat was too large for his thin frame (he kept trying to slyly roll the cuffs of the blue coat up past his knuckles but the material was was too heavy and kept falling) and his eyes darted around, nervous and jumpy. And yet.

Was it pity? Was it curiosity? Was it the act the boy looked like a fish out of water, gasping for air? He was young, smart and impressionable. Was that it? Or was George simply being his overprotective self?

George reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, squeezing shut his eyes as a migraine began to creep up on him. It was far too late in the night (or early in the morning, depending how you looked at the situation) to start self realising and self doubting. He was, however, positive of three things.

One: Lafayette and Mulligan were a drunken mess, draped over one another as the French man began to garble a song beneath his breath, eyelashes fluttering at Mulligan as the other man let out another squeak of sadness at his flask being empty of alcohol.

Two: George was really tired. And annoyed. But mostly tired.

Three: if Mulligan and Lafayette had been celebrating Alexander's birthday, where was the boy?

"Mulligan?" George sighed, releasing his fingers from their locked position on his nose so he could once again cross his arms across his chest. The other man looked at him, eyes hooded and looking slightly paler. Lafayette continued to coo whatever song he was singing to Mulligan beneath his breath. "Where is Hamilton?"

Mulligan blinked once.

Twice.

Lafayette started another verse of whatever song he was singing, all pink cheeks and eyelashes fluttering.

"Hamilton?" Mulligan repeated, speech more slurred. "Oh! Hamilton! Alexander Hamilton _..._ Al Ham..." The man was struggling to get the words past his lips, soon lost in his own world. "Haammmmmiiillltttonnnnn... Hammy... the Ham man - "

"Oh, we lost him _loooonnngggg_ ago!" Lafayette pitched in. "He took _all_ my whishky - _hic_ \- whisky an' - an' - and! I don't know." The Marquis' smile suddenly dropped and his eyebrows knitted closer. He took his hand that was wrapped around Mulligan's waist and clutched his stomach, bending over as the tight curls that were scraped back to the crown of his head sprung free, framing his face. Lafayette inflated his cheeks and made a retching sound as a groan left him. Mulligan, fearing for the life of his leather boots, stumbled back away from the drunk Marquis. " _Uh oh_ , I don' feel so good..."

George made a mental note to make sure by the time morning came that he would make both Mulligan and Lafayette's life complete hell.

"Mulligan," George sighed yet again, the breath bleeding past his cracked lips. Truly, both men were rather inebriated past the point of functioning properly but Mulligan seemed the most sober out of the two since he was easy to stand on both feet and wasn't retching. The Marquis continued making his retching sounds, making gurgling sounds as he mumbled in French beneath his breath. Mulligan, clutching the ends of his coat up like a maiden would clutch her skirts should she see a mouse, turned his gaze away from his intoxicated friend and towards his General. "Please escort the Marquis back to his tent."

" _IIIIIIII_ don' need es _cortin_ '," Lafayette complained, his back straightening and his corkscrew curls flying all around him. He looked paler than usual in the low light and seemed to even struggle to stand on his feet. He released an arm and waggled a finger at George, much to the latter's surprise. "I am not a maiden who cannot hold her drink! No one will make a fool out of Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette!"

"No one's got the time," Mulligan retorted, stumbling towards his friend and wrapping an arm around the French man's waist, the Marquis instantly letting his weight be carried by the other man as he let his own arm wrap around his friend's neck. George felt his face scrunch up as he watch Lafayette began to - quite without shame - nuzzle Mulligan's neck. "C'mon if you - _hic_ \- if you come along I'll get you into bed."

Lafayette let out a giggle as he pulled back to look at his friend with bright and wide, doe eyes. "Will you tuck me in as well, _mon amour?_ "

"O' course!" Mulligan gasped, a sloppy and toothy grin on his face as a happy gasp left Lafayette, reaching up to press a chaste kiss to Mulligan's cheek, unaware that their General was still in their company but it seemed that they didn't care if someone were to witness their casual affection.

George felt awkward - no, positively _uncomfortable_ to be an observer upon such an exchange between the two soldiers. He had heard the rumours, of course, but it was different having seen it with his own two eyes. His stomach was in knots, both out of annoyance and the unnerving way the two men were looking at each other. It had always been easier to turn the other way when one managed to stumbled upon such an exchange but there was no such hope for George. They were draped over one another, lost in the alcohol they consumed and the intoxicating presence of the other.

Lafayette turned to George, an equally sloppy and toothy on his face, all red cheeked and bleary eyed. " _Au revoir,_ my dear General! Do not hesitate to update on our dear Hamilton's well being should you find him!" George was pretty sure he had never been so stone faced as the Marquis blew a kiss to him before slipping his arm from behind Mulligan and instead choosing to link arms with his friend. Such an image reminded George of when a man and a woman would loop their arms together; except what he was seeing in front of him was far more disturbing, as Lafayette was suddenly in place of a woman. George shook his head and elected that maybe imagining Lafayette in a dress was sure enough to leave him with nightmares for the rest of his life.

There was still the matter of Alexander, however.

Alexander was old enough to take care of him ( _a lie, a lie, he's too young, too brash, too fragile, George_ ) and he certainly didn't want George's help with any of his problems ( _just because he doesn't my help it does not mean that he doesn't need my help_ ). What if he got into a fight with another soldier? It was most likely and, considering that Alexander was already quick to offend another person while sober, George didn't even want to think what would happen if he was _drunk_. Oh God, he'd probably be found unconscious face down in the mud by the morning. Worry was wrapping itself around George - like when Jacky would _insist_ that he could ride the large horse instead of his small pony and there was that constant fear of _he's going to fall, the horse is going to knock him off, oh God, oh God_ running through George's mind, never ending and in a constant loop.

George let himself rest back down on his bed, his elbows resting down on his knees as he placed his head in the palms of his hands. The heel of his palms rubbed into his eyes, trying to dispel whatever tiredness lingered at the edges of his vision. He just didn't understand the boy at all; Alexander always scrunched his face up whenever being offered a drink by George, almost gagging when sipping the amber liquid. A breathy chuckle left George as he remembered Alexander, due to his utter disgust at the taste, tried to cough the liquor back up and, unfortunately, ended up snorting the drink up his nose in front of George. He had been so red faced and embarrassed despite George's attempt to comfort him, saying that it had happened to him the first time he supped on a drink.

He could still remember how the boy's freckles stood out against his red face and his jaw clenched, his too long of sleeve wiping along the bottom of his nose. The memory reminded George just how _young_ Alexander was, just how the boy was barely passing out of childhood. Another sigh left George as he felt his heart twist, fraught with worry and anxiety for the boy's well being. He was most likely drunk and alone amidst a camp of men who were far older (and far taller and stronger) than him. George felt frazzled, unsure if he should spring into action and start clucking like a mother hen or attempt to sleep again. _Ha_ , as if he would be able to sleep without knowing for sure that Alexander was safe.

_Damn it._

George got to his feet again, almost wanting to turn back to his bed and promise to return later, before he decided to grab his coat, slipping his arms through it as he tugged at his boots back on properly on his feet, having slipped off slightly from him sleeping with them on. The candles were burning low and he cursed at himself for being so careless and extinguished the three flickers of light that illuminated his surroundings. He was enveloped with darkness, only the silver glow of the moon seeping in through the flaps of the tent being his source of light. George tugged at his cuffs as he made his way out of his tent, eyes squinting through the darkness; all around him were multiple hearths scattered throughout the camp, emitting a dull, orange glow. The night was truly fierce, the coldness sinking its teeth into whatever skin he had exposed. He tugged his coat tighter around him. The weather only made the concern he had over Alexander worsen.

He had no idea where to start looking; he stood there dumbly for a few moments, looking around him as his eyes drunk in the faces of the soldiers that were huddled in around the embers of their fires, tired and hungry. None of them were Alexander and George tried to ignore the fact his stomach was tying itself into knots. He couldn't very well start going around asking if anyone had seen Alexander Hamilton, both for his own sake as well as Alexander's. Mulligan and Lafayette were too drunk to be of any use, not that George very well barge in on them at this moment. He wanted to save himself the mental trauma.

So George decided maybe the best place was to start was Alexander's tent. It was located quite closely to George's own tent, due to the fact Alexander was his aide-de-camp. George tucked his hands beneath his arms, scrunching them up as he kept his head down. He wasn't exactly all dressed up to be the great General George Washington at that moment; his clothes were all rumpled, his eyes still bleary from being forced awake and the fact the frown on his face couldn't be removed. Martha always told him that his face would permanently be like that if he didn't smile more often.

He pulled back the entrance to Hamilton's tent but, surprisingly, he saw that it was empty; the candle wasn't lit and Alexander wasn't hunched over his desk, scribbling away on a piece of parchment. It was empty, a skeleton, and it almost made George feel uncomfortable with how lifeless it was. When ever he would walk past Alexander's tent it was always filled with light. Then, quite suddenly, it hit George that he had never actually been inside Alexander's tent. It was a place of refuge for the boy, that he knew, but it was always closed off. The boy refused to let anyone to ever step inside though Alexander spent a lot more time writing at George's desk than his own. The silence was engulfing George and, in a moment of feeling daring, he stepped in, letting the flaps of the tent closing behind him and he was alone.

There wasn't much room for movement but it was airy; through the light of the waxing moon, George could see through the thick darkness, drinking in his new environment. The bed was messy, unmade with sheets pushed to the end of the mattress; the pillow was instead resting in the rickety chair that Hamilton would sit in, obviously indicating that the bed was not in use as much as it should be. There was a single candle stub resting in a single metal container on the edge of a desk. Mountains of paper were resting on Hamilton's desk, opposite towers of books. George, hesitant, took a step forward to look at the collection of books, eyes trying to make out the words along the spines of the books. But it was no use, they seemed to be used so frequently that any hope of trying to make sense of the faded letters was in vain.

George let his hand tentatively reach out to run his hand along the back of the book that resting on the top of the pile, feeling how truly worn it was. It was thinner and smaller than the other books and looked to be more worn as well. Curiosity took hold of George as he took the book in his grip, marvelling out how smooth the cover felt, as if having been handled so many times. He opened the cover, carefully and almost wincing as he saw how the over and spine lifted off of the yellow pages. The title, though faded, was legible. The words shocked George.

It was...

It was a collection of fairy tales.

George blinked thrice, thinking maybe it was his imagination but as he turned his eyes back towards the page he saw that he had not read it wrong. Alexander Hamilton had a collection of children's fairy tales in his possession. What on earth was he doing with it? The pages were crisp and George believed that if he mishandled them, they would crumble into dust. He gently turned the first page that held the title and read next page. Only this time, it was a piece written in delicate and elegant handwriting.

_Dearest Alexander,_

_Never forget that the world is for you to shape and mould. Make yourself the hero of your own story._

_~  
Your loving mother_

Oh God, it was wrong, wrong to have read such a personal message, wrong to intrude on Alexander's privacy. George's heart was in his throat and he couldn't breathe. He needed to leave, needed to breathe different air. _Get out, get out, get out._ He felt almost ill; he slammed the cover shut, placing the book ( _a children's fairy tale book_ ) back where it rested. George turned tail, getting out as fast as he could. _Try not to focus on it._

He needed to find Alexander. Fast.

There was only one problem.

George had no idea where Alexander was.

_**Damn**._

But his curiosity about the boy only increased tenfold; from how worn and torn the book was, George could only be sure that it was a treasure that Alexander held close and near to him. But... why? Most boys, as they grew up, seemed ready to throw away any evidence that showed their youth but not Alexander. To hold on to such a thing... it seemed that the was desperately trying to hold onto his childhood, to hold on to his...

George shook his head, scattering all thoughts about the boy. No, it wasn't his place to make assumptions. The boy was mostly likely drunken and alone and yet George was so selfishly trying to sate his curiosity. Passing through the camp like a ghost, George tried to ignore the burn in his legs as the coldness bit at his nose. No one seemed to be paying attention to him, something he was grateful for. The darkness gave a cloak of invisibility, his face shielded from being recognised. His fingers were growing stiff from being curled up into his palm beneath his arms for so long but George pushed whatever little annoyances there were to the back of his mind.

The further and further George drifted into camp, the more the anxiety tightened its grip on his heart. He desperately tried not to think the worse, but it seemed as if that whatever parental concern that he had thought drifted away when Patsy and Jacky had grown up decided to hammer its way back into his skull and invade his thoughts. _Try not to think of Alexander possibly alone, or unconscious lying in a puddle of his own vomit. Do not think think of him being alone with his thoughts with no one beside him. Do not, do not, do not be overcome by your emotions._

He was restless, every moment passing with his mind screaming at him the endless possibilities of what could have happened to the boy. Mulligan and Lafayette were of no use to him due to their current intoxicated state; George tried to scrambled to remember who else Alexander associated himself with. John Laurens, a meek albeit outspoken man whose face had more freckles than the night sky had stars. Out of all of those Alexander connected himself too, it appeared, at least to George, that he was closer to Laurens than with the others.

And Aaron Burr.

George felt his skin crawl at the thought of having to ask Burr the location of Alexander.

How long did he spend wandering about, lost in his thoughts and worry? The sleep he managed to brush away earlier was slowly sinking back into his bones; the cold was seeping in through his clothes, his skin tingling as the freeze in the air burned his throat as he took in a deep breath. The camp was growing sparser, less men dwindling about as the mud began to grow even thicker and his feet were sinking into the ground. George's face felt as if it had been frozen into position as he kept his hearing sharp for even a mention of Alexander's name leaving someone else's lips. The smell of grass, gunpowder, sweat and alcohol was thick in the air; all around George were men, both sober, drunk and all those in between. Most of the soldiers held a depressed look on their faces and those who didn't were passed out asleep.

His search was growing fruitless as George could not spot a single sign of the young man; George felt lost, useless as he paused in his footsteps, crouching down on the uneven terrain to place his head in his palms, trying to push away the growing headache. He cared not if others thought him strange for acting in such a way for he was far too occupied in his worry and for for Alexander's well being. He tried, so very desperately, to think positively; maybe Alexander had managed to stumble back to his own tent, or he was simply passed out where his friends would be able to look after him.

A growl of frustration was in the back of George's throat as he kneaded his palms into his eyes, stars bursting in the galaxy of darkness. Even if he did find Alexander, who was to say that the boy would even want his help? Alexander was vehemently opposed to showing any kind of weakness and seemed to have the idea that everyone in the world was out to get him. The boy had made it this far without George's help, so why would he even start now? A lump tightened in the base of George's throat as he remembered that no matter how much he tried, that Alexander was not, would never, _could_ _never be -_

". . . all I wanted was a drink, honest. I tried to take a sip and the little shit all but nearly scratched my eyes out. I would've hit the piece shit if I didn't have the blood in my - fuck! Will ya watch it?"

George, still in his crouched position, flew up to the source of the voice; a man, maybe in his early thirties, sat with blood, indeed, running down his brow in a bloody and brutal mess. Four red lines started from his hairline to his brow bone, not deep but the amount of blood gave the impression it was a deadly injury. The man, gruff and rather tall, pushed away his friend and held a clothe to the cuts, wincing as he did so. Another man sat down beside him, snickering as the other man accompanying them looked down at the two with a disapproving look.

"I told you that you shouldn't 'ave tried to take his drink," said the man standing. "I should have let him leave you blind for acting so stupid."

"Wiiiillllll!" slurred the other friend who sat by his injured friend. "Tha' is soooo mean! I say we should've beat him!"

"Ah yes, beating up the General's aide-de-camp, what a brilliant idea, Theo! Don't be such a fucking idiot," snapped the other, Will, as he bent to whack the drunken sitting man over the back of the head. The injured soldier looked at his friend in surprise, his uninjured eye blinking in shock.

"You mean to tell me _that_ was _Alexander Hamilton_?" he scoffed. "Fuckin' hell, have people not heard of standards nowadays?"

"It appears that with you here, no, they haven't," his friend, Theo, replied with a giggle.

"I still don't think we should have left him at the stables," Will sighed. "He _is_ a superior officer."

"Superior officer or not, he can _suck my d_ \- "

George was off before he could even hear the rest of the vulgar sentence. He ignored the squelching sound the mud made as his feet hit the ground, not quite running but not quite taking his time. The hustle and bustle of life in the camp were soon replaced by gentle whinnying and snorting from the horses. The smell of hay hit George before he could even see the make shift stable, scrunching his nose up as he squinted through the darkness, flexing his fingers to rid himself of the ache that settled in from being bunched up for so long. The scent of the place invaded George's nose; he could barely see through the darkness as he paused, looking all around him for any sign of the boy.

Save for the snickering of the animals, there was silence.

Then he heard the retching sound.

Using his sense of hearing, George navigated himself through the darkness, careful with his footing so that he would not stop over anything, as he finally found the reason or his whole search, as well as his worry.

Despite the lack of light, George could still see the state the boy was in due to the gentle glow of the moon that seeped in; he was lying on his side, unable to breathe properly with straws of hay locking their golden fingers in his curls. George could smell the faint aroma of bile. In an instant, George was at Alexander's side, pulling him up into a sitting position, Alexander's back against George's chest as the boy's head lolled to one side. George wrapped his arms beneath Alexander's, sitting on his knees as he reached up to push away the strands of hair that were stuck to Alexander's sweaty forehead. _Damn, how much has he drank?_ George cursed, looking around for a sign of a bottle. He recalled how the Marquis informed George, rather bitterly, that the boy had stolen his bottle of whisky. George prayed that the boy wasn't stupid enough to drink it all.

A groan left Alexander as his eyes, unfocused and bleary, looked up at George, hazy and his eyebrows knitted together. His mouth was agape, like a fish out of water as it opened and closed one, two, three times. Alexander seemed unable to focus as George held his entire weight, which was not much. The younger man looked at George once again, confusion scattered across his face. "Sir...?"

The question hung in the air and was left unanswered as Alexander's body bucked forwards, almost slipping from George's grip as he vomited on the ground between his legs. The General was quick to hold back Alexander's hair, which was free from where it was usually tied at the back of the boy's head. The boy retched, the disgusting smell of vomit filling the air as George shifted position, using one hand to hold back Alexander's hair while the other moved up and down softly on Alexander's back.

The boy paused for a moment, whimpering before he spat on the ground, his shoulders heaving as he took in deep breathes of air. Alexander's body slacked again, his skin glistening from sweat and paler than usual, along his chin was a line of bile. Taking Alexander's weight with one arm, Alexander resting his head against George's shoulder( _George thought his days of looking after drunken solders were over_ ) as George reached into his pocket, hoping to grasp the handkerchief that Martha had made him. Today seemed to be his lucky day as he felt the soft touch of the material and he removed it from the confines of his pocket, reaching up to wipe Alexander's chin.

"It's all right, son, it's all right," George soothed as the boy tried to control his breathing, shutting his eyes as George folded the square material up again, placing it back into his coat. Alexander let out another whine as his head lolled to the side, unable to keep the weight up anymore. Incoherent murmurs left his mouth as he leaned up against George. George had no idea what to do with Alexander, or how to react due to the turn of events.

"It... it _hurts_ ," Alexander whined. The words had been spoken in such a soft and low tone that George had thought he had imagined the words except when he glanced down he saw Alexander's lips form the words, muttering beneath his breath. Concern and trouble bloomed in George's chest as he drank in Alexander's features, searching for any sign of a bruise or bleeding but he found none. George shifted his position again, hands on either side of Alexander's face, cupping the boy's cheeks to make sure that Alexander kept his eyes focused on him.

"Alexander, son, I need you to focus, okay?" George spoke, thumb brushing against the plain of Alexander's cheek to push back a lock of hair. Alexander stared at the General, eyes hazy as he gave a limp nod to confirm that he was, indeed, listening to George. "Where are you hurt? You need to tell me, son. Tell me where you're hurt and we can get you help."

Alexander watched George for a brief moment, eyes wide like a deer, as he drank in George's words. Then, the boy scrunched up his face, nose crinkling as though he was deep in thought, before, just as instantly, his face crumbled again, a frown settling on the corner of his lips and his eyes grew misty. His eyebrows knitted themselves together, a crease forming between them, as Alexander sluggishly reached a hand up, index finger outstretched as he placed the pad of his finger to his sweaty temple. Alexander's bottom lip began to tremble as his shoulders heaved in an effort to control his breathing.

" _Here_. It... it hurts here," Alexander replied, cool and voice dropping. His voice was dry and cracked, trying to keep his thoughts and emotions together. His hand found its way around George's wrist, his grip like a vice as his eyes bored into George's. "Please... make it stop. It - it hurts."

Before George could respond to Alexander, the boy wrapped his arms around George, loose and limp due to the awkward position as a dry sob found itself through Alexander's chest, a sniffle leaving him. In an instant, George wrapped his own arms around Alexander, an instant reflex, noticing how the boy's gripped tighter to the General as he sobbed into George's shoulder, almost forgetting propriety. The turn of events, and change in personality, were so sudden, so sharp, that George couldn't gather his thoughts that scattered, electing instead to hold the sobbing boy to him while smoothing down the messy curls that were piled atop of Alexander's head, soft hushing noises leaving him to comfort that anguished boy.

George had difficulty remembering that this was the same Alexander Hamilton, that the Alexander that was currently holding onto George as if he was a life line all the while sobbing into the General's shoulder was the exact same Alexander that kept his distance from George, locking everything inside himself. The Alexander that George was comforting, the Alexander that clung to George like a child would cling to its mother's skirts, was the same Alexander was chafed beneath George's affection. How much alcohol had he consumed to become such a polar opposite of his sober self? George cursed the Marquis and Mulligan for being so irresponsible as to let the boy make off with a bottle of whisky and to let him be left alone.

But...

There was a part, a small, tiny part George had thought he tucked away to the far recesses of his mind after Jacky and Patsy had long since grown up, that was overjoyed at what was happening. George tried to remind himself that Alexander was no helpless child ( _ignoring the fact that the boy could barely hold his own head up at this moment and was clutching George so tightly as if he was afraid the General would leave_ ), that Alexander was not _his_ child. The Alexander he knew when sober recoiled at any sign of showing weakness, keeping everything to himself and almost too afraid to let himself ever get close to another human. Out of fear of being hurt? Maybe. George knew, he just **_knew_** , that he could not deny the overwhelming need he had to protect Alexander, nor the fact all he wished was to see Alexander safe and sound. He almost wanted to laugh at how sentimental and emotional he sounded, trying to shake away the thoughts that grew like weeds in his mind. But it seemed he could not be rid of them, especially since Alexander was crying into his shoulder. Once a parent, always a parent. _Cluck, cluck, mother hen._

The brief interlude of peace was interrupted, however, when Alexander stifled his sobs and tensed. George knew what was going to happen before Alexander even knew.

George jumped out of the way, moving to sit behind Alexander and resumed his previous position of holding back the boy's curls as Alexander vomited yet again. The stench filled the air and George grimaced, his hand moving in soothing circles against Alexander's back. He was definitely going to make sure that Lafayette and Mulligan were going to regret taking even a single sip of alcohol by the time morning came.

Alexander's retching soon stopped however, as it seemed that he had nothing left in his stomach to throw up. His body went limp again, leaning back against George as the General decided that it was high time that Alexander would be put to bed. Unfortunately, Alexander wasn't as lucky this time as the sick had managed to get onto his shirt and waistcoat as well as his blue coat. All in all, the boy was a complete and utter mess.

"Oh, _fuuucckkkk_ ," Alexander cursed, making George frown. Alexander's speech was slurred as he stared down at his chest, pouting at the sick that clung to his clothes. "Damn, I made a mess."

George sighed as he began the task to get Alexander to his feet, which he discovered was going to be no easy feat as, for one, George towered over the boy who barely reached his shoulder as it is. As well as that, the boy's legs were as unsteady as a new born foal's. George slipped Alexander's arm around his neck, keeping his height low enough so that he wouldn't be carrying the boy. The change in stance made Alexander stumble, feet tripping over nothing as he reached up to wipe away at his chin with his sleeve.

"Come on, son, let's get you back to your tent," George said to Alexander, but it seemed that his words went in one ear and out the other as Alexander suddenly stopped trying to walk on his legs, making George carry the entirety of his weight. Whatever endearing actions Alexander showed George beforehand, they were soon replaced by irritation in the General as his aide-de-camp suddenly became rather childish in his actions.

"Nooooo," Alexander whined, his hair falling in his eyes again. "Wanna sleep in wi' the hoooorrrssseeesss. Horses are _sooooo_ nice an' don't say stupid stuff an' - an' - "

"I know, son," George forgot how utterly tiring it was to look after children. They stumbled out of the stable, thankfully, though with George supporting most to nearly all of Alexander's body. "I promise if you go to bed, then you can visit the horses tomorrow." Not that it would matter, the boy probably wouldn't even remember any of the evens that occurred over the night.

A high gasp left Alexander as he grinned foolishly up at George, all teeth and red cheeked. George nearly faltered in his steps for he had never, _ever_ seen Alexander smile in such a way, never mind smiled at _him_ in such a way. It was bright, stretching across Alexander's mouth to the extent George didn't think that the sun could match the intensity of such a smile. The boy had a single dimple in his left cheek and his face seemed rounder, making George unable to think of Alexander as anything but as a young man; he young, sure, but he was a boy who held onto a fairy tales book, a boy who was smiling up at George at the promise of being allowed to visit the stables tomorrow. Drunk or not, George would probably never to think of Alexander as the cold person he usually acted as.

"Really?! Okay! I _p-promise_ I'll go to bed! But you gotta - you gotta _promise_ that you'll visit the stables with me tomorrow." Suddenly, the smile dropped and Alexander was looked very serious. The change of moods made George feel uncomfortable. "Promise?"

A moment of hesitation.

"Promise."

And then the smile that rivalled the brightness of the sun returned and Alexander was willing enough to cooperate with George to get back to his tent. George prayed that no one would recognise their dishevelled General towing the very, _very_ drunk Alexander Hamilton (who also had his own sick down the front of his shirt) back to his tent, all the while Alexander thought it would be the perfect time to start humming songs beneath his breath. It was a tricky trip back to Alexander's tent, filled with the boy tripping and nearly bringing George down with him, the constant interruptions of Alexander asking where his friends were; where was his bottle of whisky? Why this, why that.

It took for what felt like an hour to find Alexander's tent, dark and lone amidst the sea of orange glows from the multiple firesides. George kept his head down, thankful that no one had yet took notice of the of them or, if they had, kept quiet and let George go about his business. By this point, Alexander was close to falling asleep against George's shoulder, feet dragging against the mud with his arm growing limp all the while incomprehensible mutterings slipping past his mouth. George managed to get them both inside the tent, though awkwardly as he had to hold onto Alexander with both arms, and felt relieved that the long night was near an end. He got the boy into bed, ignoring the groan of the bed at the sudden weight as Alexander sat, chin against his chest and dozing off.

George paused for a moment, reaching up to scratch his chin as he stared down at the inebriated young man, wondering if he should leave the boy as he was and go to bed. The only word to describe Alexander was a mess; his hair was full of straws of hay, his clothes were covered in dust, dirt and sick and he seemed unable to stay conscious for much longer. With another sigh bleeding past his Lips, George crouched down, hand at the back of Alexander's neck to steal his attention.

"Alexander, I'm going to help you but I need to cooperate with me, alright?" The boy, eyes unable to stay open, gave a limp nod, body leaning forward before George pushed him back into a comfortable seating position. He stalled for a moment before he reached up to slowly slide the blue coat off of Alexander's shoulders, placing it at the end of the bed. Next, George's fingers found their way to the buttons on Alexander's waistcoat, placing that on top of the coat. Alexander seemed unaware of what was happening, lost in his senseless humming with his eyes closed. George helped Alexander take of the leather boots he wore, boy sitting and watching George with half closed eyes as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles; George once again hesitated before he grabbed the loosened hem of Alexander's undershirt.

"Son, I need you to lift your arms," George murmured as he slowly lifted the thin, dirtied fabric off of the boy's chest, Alexander complying with George's request. The shirt smelled of the stables and sick, making George scrunch his nose up before he placed it with the other items of clothing that rested on the end of the bed. George paused, spying a trunk that rested beside the desk. It was rather small and, as he opened it, he wasn't all that shocked to find more books within, with a few shirts hastily bunched in the corner. He took one out, unfurling it before helping to slip it over Alexander's head. George, crouched from having to help Alexander put on his shirt and at the same height as the boy, took the handkerchief out of his pocket and, with a clean side, cleaned away the dirt and sick that Alexander had on his face before pocketing it again.The boy's hair stuck out everywhere, the curls ruffled and frizzy as Alexander hazily looked at George, eyes drooping and trying his hardest not to yawn.

George let his lips quirk slightly, reaching up to smooth down the mess that was Alexander's hair. A brief moment of respite in the middle of a war and by the time the sun would rise in the sky, all would be forgotten. Not that George would forget. Like a diligent parent, George got to his feet, his hand moving to Alexander's shoulder.

"Get some sleep," George advised, his hand lingering for a moment before he let his grip slip, turning to go and for once and for all, sleep in his own bed. However, just when he thought that he was free, something tugged at his hand and he turned to see it was Alexander gripping his hand, looking at the General with wide eyes. George was confused as Alexander held onto George's hand.

"Can you stay with me?" Alexander's voice was hushed, almost afraid to be loud. Which was odd since the Hamilton he knew seemed to love being loud and annoying. "I don't like the dark."

The confession felt like a punch to George's stomach; he stared at Alexander, the silence growing thicker as Hamilton's grip tightened to the point George's fingers ached. The moment was something George could have never been to imagine; a lost and scared looking Alexander asking for George's help. It was almost as if the world turned upside down. It took him a few seconds to realise he still needed to speak as Alexander continued to look expectantly at the General. 

"Of course."

There were many a times he had to stay with Patsy or Jacky when they went to bed due to their fear of the dark, usually he would leave by the time they fell asleep. Alexander sluggishly tucked up his legs from the ground and got into bed, lying back onto the mattress as he pulled the sheets up to him; the pillow was still resting in his chair but Alexander didn't seem to care as he brought the blanket up to his nose, half lidded eyes watching as George sat down on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to say or do. There was a brief pregnant pause before Alexander spoke.

"Sir?" His slurred speech had disappeared and was replaced with a shy meekness, which was so uncharacteristically like Alexander. George turned his gaze to the boy, his back stiff and his movement awkward. Alexander was staring off into the distance. "Do you get nightmares?"

It seemed that the boy was never short of any surprised. George was flabbergasted, eyes blinking as he tried to search for a response to such an odd question. Of course George had bad dreams, memories of all his failures and all the men he had sent to death during war times. He could still recall the stench of blood, sweat and death when he was in the trench. So many what if's. So many could have been's. These weren't nightmares, they were reality. 

"Sometimes," George replied. Not a lie, not the truth. Alexander still didn't look at George. The boy looked so much younger, curled up beneath the blankets with red cheeks and his curls lying around him like a mop.

"I do, too," Alexander confessed, wobbly and cracked. "I... I have nightmares about when I was younger. The - the hurricane that destroyed my town, my father..." The words were spilling out of Alexander's mouth, unable to be stopped as George listened. He was afraid that if he moved that the boy would stop talking, would realise that he was spilling his deepest secrets to his General. But no, the boy seemed unaware of what he was saying, for now. His voice grew more unsteady, as if he was struggling to hold back a sob. George's hand twitched to reach out and comfort the boy but he stopped himself. "I keep dreaming about my mother..."

George thought of the words that were elegantly written on the inside of the book that rested not too far away from him but he bit his tongue from saying anything.

"I keep..." Alexander pulled the sheet tighter around himself as he took a heavy breath, controlling the shakiness of his voice. "I didn't want her to hold me. There was vomit everywhere. I kept - I kept begging the doctor to let me go. I didn't want to be with her, I didn't want to be surrounded by the bile and the dirt. I kept crying but - but they thought it was because I thought I was dying. I didn't her to hold me. She - she smelt of death."

His eyes were misty, voice croaking. George's heart tightened in his chest as a lump lodged itself in the base of his throat. "I wanted to leave. She kept trying - trying to hold me. Oh, God, I woke up and she was dead. She was sick and holding me and then she died. She - she was dead! And I kept thinking about leaving! It's my fault! I could have - I could have - !"

The sobs couldn't be stopped, no matter how much Alexander tried to smother them. His shoulders shook and a tear escaped his eye, running down his cheek. George's hand stretched out, grasping Alexander's upper arm, quick to pull the boy to him. George didn't know how else to comfort the boy; the boy clutched at George's coat, burying his face into the General's chest in an attempt to quiet his sobs. George rested his chin atop of the mop of curls, hoping to soothe the boy.

"It isn't your fault, son. It isn't your fault." The words were like a mantra, leaving George's mouth, along with a string of  _I'm here, son, I'm here_ _._ Wave after wave left Alexander as sobs racked his small body; George had never seen the boy not be in control of his emotions; part of his was glad that the boy wasn't left by himself alone in the stables, the other part was glad that it was him who found the boy. If the likes of Charles Lee had discovered Alexander's current state, well... That was a nightmare George would not like to have. George unconsciously began to rock back and forth gently, a soothing movement, trying to ignore the creeping need to sleep as he focused first on Alexander's well being. As always. 

It wasn't long before Alexander's cries began to quieten, reduced to sniffling and the occasional hiccup. His grip on the General loosened, the warmth of his breath seeping in through the material of George's coat. With his breathing evened out, George could only conclude that the boy had fallen asleep in George's hold. With a small smile George laid Alexander back onto the bed, pulling the sheets up to the boy's chest. The General paused for a brief moment, hand resting against Alexander's cheek before he decided, yes, he would very much like to return to his own bed. 

He got to his feet, stretching his limbs and smothering a yawn and walked to leave the tent.

"Thank you, sir."

George turned to see that Alexander, barely clinging to being conscious, was peeking at him through his cracked open eyes. "I... Thank you. For everything. You -  It means a lot, Fa - sir."

George smiled again, pausing at the entrance looking over his shoulder at the boy. "It is my honour, son."

After what seemed like the longest night of his life, the sun began to rise, a striking palette of orange, purple and blue spilling across the sky. 

**Author's Note:**

> once again i ran out of steam near the end bc that's where i accidentally exited w/o saving and i didn't write that much again lmao so if you see a lotta errors n shit just point em out i am so tired
> 
> why do people gotta, like, think it's impossible for two people to love each other platonically
> 
> washingdad just wants to be a dad to everyone leave him alone bye


End file.
